I can handle the never-sitting-down part. I’m used to being on my feet in killer heels for hours, but just remembering that day at the studio just before we switched, when my boots were killing my toes, now seems like years ago.
It’s the time to myself that I’ve missed the most. As much as I adore Charlotte, I’m still shocked at how all-encompassing caring for her is. Between making sure she doesn’t fall down the stairs or saving her from electrocuting herself when she nearly stuck my car keys into the light socket (I’m still trying to remember not to leave my things in low places), I’m lucky if I’ve even run a brush through my hair by noon. I cringe now as I remember blowing off Rachel when she’d complained about never having a minute to herself. How deep down, I thought staying at home with a baby was the easy way out. That I secretly felt she had given up. I cringe, remembering my ignorant comments to her at the reunion. I always thought I was the one with the real pressure, fighting off every twenty-something bitch trying to knock me off my perch. Now I understand the truth. Caring for Charlotte was the hardest job I’d ever had, that I would ever have. And that includes that stint I had working with Tyra Banks a few years back.
I’ve been anxious about my trip to the GossipTV offices all morning, part excited, part nervous to step foot in the place that I had given most of my life to for the past three years. And I think again about the interview with Ryan McKnight. How Rachel had stepped in just two weeks ago and seemed to be playing me better than I’d been playing myself. It was more than a little disconcerting. Sure, I was relieved she hadn’t gotten me fired the first day as I’d been stupidly worried she might. But did she have to be so good? With each episode I watch—rushing to the bedroom the minute after I lay Charlotte down for her nap—I start to feel more and more replaceable. And the scariest part? With each day, I care a little bit less that I may be.
I pick up Charlotte and the Gucci diaper bag I had FedExed here earlier this week (bought with the real Casey’s credit card, of course) and head out the door with her on my hip.
I walk into the offices twenty minutes later with mixed emotions. I have to stop myself from greeting the crew members by name as they walk past, oblivious. I can’t help giving Fiona the evil eye as she passes me in the hall, looking me up and down before sneering at my outfit and glaring at Charlotte like she’s an alien. We don’t get many babies visiting our set.
I pop my head into my dressing room and Destiny looks up from her iPad. “Rachel? What are you doing here?” she asks, looking tired. More tired than I remember. And I wonder if she’s always this exhausted, but I choose not to see it because then I’d have to acknowledge that she practically has to live here to get all of her work done. Is she another person in my life whom I’ve failed to really see?
It’s so good to see her that I run up and give her a tight hug, smashing poor Charlotte in the process, who lets out a squeal in protest. “It’s really good to see you.”
“Whoa,” she says as she detangles herself from us and straightens her dress, one that we bought to celebrate the time I made Entertainment Weekly’s bull’s-eye after I put Spencer Pratt in his place during an interview after Heidi’s plastic surgery overdose. My successes—big and small—were always Destiny’s too: if I was ever canned she’d be out on her ass also.
“Hey, Rachel!” she calls warmly. “You here about the party?” she says as she reaches over to grab a large manila folder with “John’s party” written on it.
“Actually, I’m here to see Casey.”
“Hmmm . . .” she murmurs. She glances down at the iPad and taps the calendar. “Does she know you’re coming?”
“Yes, she does. Or I thought she did?” I say, my face warming as I realize that Rachel may be blowing me off. “She just texted me this morning,” I add.
“Okay, okay,” she says and speaks into her headset. “We’ve got someone here for Casey. What’s her ETA?” She listens for the response and nods. “Thanks,” she replies, before turning back to me. “She’s over at the craft service table. That’s—”
“I know what it is,” I say, cutting her off.
“Oh, okay,” she says, confused. “Allow me to walk you over. This way please.” She waves her arms toward the hallway.
“Thanks,” I respond, slightly embarrassed that Rachel had clearly forgotten I was coming and that Destiny was covering for her. She was just doing her job, protecting me—or rather Rachel—from distractions. Is that how I had painted Rachel to Destiny? Had I made her think my oldest and most loyal friend was nothing more than a distraction at work that I couldn’t afford?
“How’s the party planning coming?” Destiny inquires as we make our way toward craft services.
“Great,” I respond, before adding sincerely, “Thanks for all your help.”